


Keep The Good Lamp Burning

by DaughterofElros



Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - 19th Century, M/M, brief mentions of other Blackhawks, lighthouse au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 12:05:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1427845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaughterofElros/pseuds/DaughterofElros
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick is a Lighthouse Keeper who tends the Kingston Shoal Light on a rocky island at the edge of the Atlantic. He's content with the solitude of his life until the day that Brandon turns up to deliver supplies. </p><p>(Because why wouldn't you need a 19th century Nick Leddy/Brandon Saad Lighthouse AU?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep The Good Lamp Burning

**Author's Note:**

> Ever since the 2013 Superbowl Cuddle Fest, I have had a strong need for there to be all of the sweet fic about Leddy and Saader. Naturally, my brain went to "A Lighthouse! That's what we need here!"
> 
> I regret nothing.

Thanks to the lovely [Liandria ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Liandria/pseuds/Liandria)for the beta and encouragement!

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Nick likes the job he has in keeping the Kingston Shoal Light. He’s never been one to shy away from hard work, and the work he’s been hired to do is important. Nick keeps the beacon that welcomes ships home and steers them safe away from the treacherous waters that would ground and sink them. He likes knowing that he and the flame he keeps are the last line of defense for the ships that sail in the night.

 

Because he knows the importance of the work, it’s easy enough to overlook the challenges of life at the edge of the deep. The lighthouse is located on a rocky island a little over a mile out from the shore, so visitors are rare. The location makes for a solitary life, and loneliness is by far the greatest burden he has to bear. He enjoys the solitude up to a point, but there are enough times that he stares up at the gulls wheeling and shrieking overhead and wishes fleetingly that there were someone else around.

 

Rowing back to the mainland is easy enough if there’s a matter of some urgency to be handled- ordering a replacement for a damaged part, and that sort of thing- but it’s time consuming. His days are lived to a strict schedule, waking each morning to a series of tasks that must be completed to assure the light is functional and then lighting the flame each night, so trips to the mainland are infrequent, and rushed when they do occur.

 

The system that has been in place since long before his tenure is more reliable. Every two weeks, Mr. Goodman at the General Store rows out with a delivery of supplies. He puffs his pipe and talks while Nick unloads the little boat, updating Nick on all of the relevant goings-on back in town (so long as relevant is loosely defined. He would be offended to hear it spoken, but Mr. Goodman could easily be called a gossip.) Once his own news is delivered, he hands over a packet of letters and newspapers, and takes any correspondence Nick has written in the preceding two weeks along with any additions to the supply order, takes up his oars again, and rows back once more. There are occasional months where the only human voice he hears is that of Old Mr. Goodman.

 

Once he’s learned to live with it though, the excessive solitude is not unbearable. He even likes it most days. His own company, he finds, is far more preferable than that of most of the people he’s ever met.

 

And then, one day, he goes down to greet the boat as it approaches the island and finds someone who, apart from being male, bears little resemblance to Old Mr. Goodman.

 

This man is, for a start, measurably more attractive than Goodman. He’s tall, and broad shouldered with light brown hair and a face that’s something in between sweet and devastatingly handsome. Nick shields his eyes against the afternoon sun in order to see him better. As he studies the man’s face, he’s startled to realize how youthful he is- probably even younger than Nick himself.

 

The other man calls out a greeting as he brings the rowboat in, and introduces himself as Brandon. He jumps from the boat, and Nick has a startled moment to realize that this Brandon is actually taller than he is. Being of rather imposing stature himself at six foot even, Nick can’t recall the last time he was made to feel small by another man’s height. It’s a strange sensation, yet not altogether an unpleasant one.

 

He learns quickly that Brandon is a kind soul. Even as he explains that he’ll be taking on the delivery schedule as a favor to Mr. Goodman, who is getting a bit up in years to be doing quite as much rowing as it takes to make it to the island and back, Brandon has begun to help unload the boat. He hoists bags of coal and sacks of flour with apparent ease, which Nick can’t help but appreciate. He knows the muscle it takes to lift such items as though they’re nothing- he can’t help but notice the flex of those muscles beneath Brandon’s shirt. Furthermore, Brandon refuses to simply leave the goods where they are unloaded, insisting on traipsing beside Nick to stow everything in its proper place.

 

Nick doesn’t bother to pretend that he isn’t grateful. An extra set of able hands makes the work go faster, to the extent that it seems hardly any time has passed. Because the stores are now replenished, Nick feels comfortable inviting Brandon to have a cup of coffee with him. He’s surprised when Brandon accepts, but not at all displeased. It’s late enough in April now that they can take the coffee down to the rocks in tin cups and perch there, looking back at the mainland as they get to know each other.

 

Brandon seems pleasant to be around, happy enough to talk, but not rushing to fill every silence with words for the sake of speaking. He speaks freely when prompted with a question, and happily talks of his childhood in Pennsylvania and how he left to work on one of the canals since he didn’t want to dig coal or work steel. He talks about how he struck out on his own much like his Father had done when he came to America, and how he’s always been called to the sea. Nick tells him how much that resonates with his own story- the need to strike out on his own and the call of the sea. He’s genuinely disappointed when the coffee is gone and there’s no further excuse to linger. He’s startled to realize that he hasn’t genuinely enjoyed himself like this in a very long time.

 

He finds himself waving from the shore as Brandon rows away; as he ducks into the kitchen to wash the cups, he realizes that he’s already looking forward to the next supply delivery.

 

 

 

It becomes their own little ritual: Brandon arrives, Nick meets him at the water, they unload the supplies together and haul them to where they belong. Then, depending on how early or late it is in the afternoon, Nick makes them coffee, or offers Brandon something to eat. Sometimes they go out to the rocks, other times they sit in the kitchen and Nick pulls together a meal. Brandon’s the only person who’s ever been a guest in the kitchen, at least since Nick’s been the keeper. He wonders if Brandon realizes how unique this all is. He wonders if Brandon realizes just how highly Nick regards him. Nick tries never to be overt- he’s not even sure exactly what desire it is he’s concealing. He just knows that he wakes on the mornings that Brandon is scheduled to arrive with a smile on his lips and the urge to whistle cheerfully while he goes about his work. He never felt compelled to whistle on days when he was expecting Mr. Goodman.

 

And sometimes, impossibly, Brandon looks at him with a soft smile that makes Nick think- just for an instant- that he knows the absurd wishes that filter through Nick’s mind as he lays in bed at night or adjusts the light’s mechanisms in the pale morning sun, and isn’t the least bit alarmed by it.

 

Nick dismisses all of it at first as merely camaraderie falsely compelled by the fact that they meet in the singular atmosphere of the island and the lighthouse, where they’re the only two people around. Naturally, he reasons, he would gravitate to Brandon, and Brandon would engage him in conversation because they’re the only people present. But then, a couple of weeks into May, a lamp chimney cracks while he’s cleaning it. It’s no cause for alarm, since he keeps a spare, but the need to order a replacement is more urgent than the wait of a week or so for the next mail will allow.

 

So it is that by afternoon, he finds himself on his way back from the General Store, his letter sent and various small errands completed. Turning down the dock, he hears the shout of his name and looks up to see Brandon waving at him from where he’s patching a hole in the hull of a small boat. He waves in return, not wanting to make too awkward a greeting, but Brandon is already scrambling up the stairs. He finds his shoulders firmly and affectionately thumped and then, in the next breath, being asked if he is returning to Shoal Island and if he can afford to spare a bit of time.

 

He does have a bit of time- an hour, two at most- before it would be irresponsible not to be returning, so he says as much. Brandon grins and tells him, “Good. Because last time we spoke, I mentioned Greta’s Cafe, and you said you’d never been. We’re fixing that.” So saying, he drapes an arm over Nick’s shoulders and begins to steer him back up the dock. Long after Brandon lets his arm slide away, Nick feels the weight of it across his shoulders.

 

At the cafe, he lets Brandon talk him into getting a slice of rhubarb pie, on the assertion that it’s the best pie Brandon’s ever tasted. Brandon waits eagerly to gauge his reaction, a dazzling smile breaking across his lips when Nick takes a bite and lets out an involuntary moan of approval. It’s honestly amazing, the sweet sugar and the tartness of the rhubarb bursting across his taste buds.

 

Once Brandon’s point has been proved, he picks up his own fork and delves in, closing his eyes as he takes the first bite. Nick is a bit dumbfounded because he knows exactly what Brandon is tasting, knows that the pie is incredible, but even so, he’s never seen a man look so unabashedly… pleasured in public. Brandon’s expression is positively indecent, but far from being appalled or even amused, the sight causes Nick’s breathing to still and makes something flip low in his belly. He busies himself with his own pie, but can’t help glancing up whenever Brandon takes a bite. He’s certainly…enamored with Brandon, probably disastrously so where his own feeling are concerned. He’s forced to admit that it’s going a bit far. He’s certainly never found someone  _eating_  to be attractive before.

 

 

 

As spring barrels on into summer, Brandon starts making his delivery a little later in the day because it means he can stay longer, with only the approach of nightfall to dictate his return. He brings things with him too- blackcap berries that are fresh and sweet and that stain their fingertips purplish pink. They split them evenly, but Nick eats his faster, so Brandon catches his hand and tips his few remaining berries into Nick’s palm. Nick is hyper-aware of every sensation- the dig of Brandon’s long fingers against the back of his wrist, the way that Brandon’s palm presses his own hand into a cup for the berries, almost burning hot against his knuckles. He feels the way that every small berry lands on his skin, and the ephemeral brush of Brandon’s fingertips as he steals back a single blackcap, popping it into his mouth with a clever grin and following it with his thumb as he licks away the berry juice.

 

The next time it’s a fresh caught trout that he brings, wrapped up and stowed in a metal pail beneath other items in the boat to keep it cool. They make it their supper and stay so long talking in the kitchen than the sun is dipping low at the horizon before Brandon makes his way back to the boat.

 

Nick finds himself more inclined to make the trip to the mainland himself too. And if one time he forgets to post the letter he ostensibly rowed all the way there to send because he ends up spending the day with Brandon and helping him repair boats, nobody has to know. He just includes the letter in what he hands to Brandon a few days later and there’s no one to remark on it.

 

In August, Brandon asks if he’s planning on going to the town fair the next week. And Nick really wasn’t. He’s never attended in all the time he’s been here. But instead of saying that, he hesitates and asks if Brandon is going to go. And when Brandon says that of course he is, Nick agrees that he might go too. He tries not to look too pleased when Brandon offers to wait for him and they can walk up together.

 

Nick enjoys the fair far more than he would have anticipated, due to the fact that Brandon is by his side. Brandon knows far more people around town than Nick does, so in between stops to eat wonderful food and to admire award-winning specimens of both farm animals and produce, Nick finds himself introduced to more faces than he can keep sorted. The people that Brandon knows range from a rambunctious fellow named Andrew to a man with a thousand-yard stare named Jon. There’s a Patrick with a pretty wife named Abigail and two little ones in tow, and another Patrick who operates a tavern despite the protests of those in town who adhere to the temperance movement. There are others who names and faces blend together, and two that he thinks might be brothers despite the fact that they look nothing alike. By the time they’ve moved on, he still isn’t sure that he’s correctly remembered which pretty wife and bouncing baby boy are matched to which brother. Hell, he isn’t sure if they’re brothers at all.

 

The thing that he  _does_  remember is that Brandon has every opportunity to go off with any of his friends, to accompany them to whatever amusement they’re heading toward. And yet, he stays by Nick’s side, stance casual and open, just easy and carefree. A group of musicians gather on the porch of the General Store and launch into a lively series of songs. Nick is intrigued to learn that Brandon is a fair singer, his voice strong and a bit deeper than normal as he joins in the chorus alongside the rest of the crowd.

 

Over the course of the day, Nick loses track of how many times they touch- affectionately violent shoulder bumps that can be played off as roughhousing, fleeting taps to draw each other’s attention, even moments of standing close enough together by a fence or leaning against a wall that their elbows brush or even settle against each other because neither of them shy away. Nick simultaneously understands what this means, and refuses to think on it.

 

It’s early September when Brandon rows out to the Lighthouse again. It’s a warm day, so they forgo the coffee and instead climb to the catwalk that surrounds the light itself, sitting together to stare out at the ocean and listen to the waves lap at the rocks below. They barely talk, just let the breeze ruffle their hair and cool the air around them while they sit too close together.

 

After a few minutes, Brandon shifts, relaxing his shoulders. His hand moves,falling to press lightly against Nick’s. For a long moment, neither of them move. Then, so slowly and deliberately that there can be no confusion, Nick dares to turn his own hand, arranging it so that their palms are pressed together. His fingers fall into the spaces between Brandon’s and for a second there’s no reaction. Nick’s heart skips a beat, terrified that he’s made a horrible mistake. And then, mercifully, Brandon’s fingers clench around his own, locking them together with a firm grip. Tentatively, he strokes his thumb over Nick’s knuckle, the callous there scraping along the skin.

 

They sit like that for a long time, looking out at the horizon in silence and not talking about the magnitude of what they’re saying to each other in the simple gesture. They sit long enough for the air to begin to cool as the sky fades from the blue before them into tawny yellow with streaks of red at their backs. Reluctantly, they stand because Brandon has to return and Nick has to light the lamp for any ships that are out there in the night that’s fast approaching.

 

He says as much, loathe to pull his hand away from Brandon’s and break the fragile contact they have made, but mindful that such action is necessary. Brandon smiles softly and nods.

 

“I can see the light out here from my window.” He confesses softly. “Every time I see it, I think of you.” Nick wants to much in that moment- he wants to pull Brandon close, draw them together in an embrace. He wants to look him in the eye, to kiss his lips and the hint of a dimple on his cheek. But they’re out of time, and actions like that are unwise, so he only says, “Two weeks.” And can’t help the way it comes out a little melancholy.

 

“Two weeks.” Brandon agrees, and from his lips it sounds distinctly like a promise.

 

 

Two weeks pass and throughout that time, Nick doesn’t allow himself speculate on what might happen when Brandon finally arrives again. He’s never been the type of man who gives himself over to flights of fancy. He can’t know the future, and there’s no use daydreaming about what’s uncertain. But all the pragmatism in the world doesn’t stop him from thinking over and over about the long moments when their hands were entwined, their limbs so near to touching that the phantom contact created its own physical sensation. It doesn’t stop him from thinking of seeing Brandon with a sense of anticipation that makes him restless and jittery, unable to keep still. He throws himself into his tasks, using diligence to drive away distraction. By the end of the two weeks, he suspects the entire island has never looked more in order. Hell, even the coal bin shines from the cleaning he’s given it.

 

 

Delivery day dawns bright, with only a handful of clouds scudding across the brilliantly blue sky. The gulls call, and the oyster catchers along the rocks trill and scold in return. It’s warm, but not overbearingly so, and Nick fleetingly reflects that it has the makings of a perfect morning.

 

By noon, however, it’s become something of a different story. The clouds have begun to build into a formidable wall that towers and stretches into the sky. Around two, the wind picks up, snapping the flags against the pole as the water grows increasingly choppy. A storm is brewing, and Nick is forced to consider the disappointing reality that since Brandon isn’t here by now, he likely won’t make it today. It’s not wise to be out in a rowboat in a storm as bad as this one is aiming to be. Still, he keeps an eye out to the water as the sky grows darker.

 

The first fat drop of rain falls on his neck while the sky overhead still looks clear, the bright sunshine striking at the encroaching clouds defiantly, making their purple-gray depths all the more intimidating. He stows the last of the tools he’d been using, calculating that it’s probably time to make sure the light is on to warn ships that are about to get tossed about in the gale. He’s ducking into the doorway, intent on mounting the stairs to the service room to light the lamp and adjust the vents when something makes him glance over his shoulder.

 

Astoundingly, there’s the boat, bucking on the choppy water. Even though it’s still too far out to see details like facial features, he can tell that it’s Brandon. He recognizes the line of the shoulders straining at the oars.

 

He waits there, heart beating in time to the gusts of wind snapping at his clothes until the boat is close enough that he can reach out and help to haul it safely up the shore.

 

“Little rough out there today.” Brandon observes, his voice raised enough to be heard over the wind. Nick shoots him an incredulous look.

 

“Were you trying to drown yourself?” he asks as raindrops begin falling a little faster, three or four of them soaking into his shirt in quick succession.

 

“No.” Brandon says reasonably. “ But I knew you would be concerned if there was a storm and I didn’t turn up. I didn’t want you to worry for no reason.”

 

“So you thought you’d give me a real reason to worry?” Nick glares, but he’s not angry. Not really. He’s just trying to banish the images that are flooding his head of an overturned boat tossed on the waves, of Brandon struggling to keep his head above water, doused beneath wave after wave until he doesn’t resurface again.

 

“Not exactly.” Brandon says, but Nick detects a hint of sheepishness there in his tone. It’s enough to make him drag the taller man to him in an almost violent embrace.

 

“You’re an idiot.” He declares, but there’s no heat in his words, only relief.

 

“Never claimed I wasn’t.” Is the reply he gets, almost whispered into his shoulder. It’s not a declaration of anything exactly, but the way Brandon says it, it sounds like it could be. That’s enough to make Nick breathe for a second, keep him from saying any of the other things he’s thinking like  _I could have waited until tomorrow_  because he doesn’t know if Brandon will understand the implied  _but I can’t lose you._ There’s a flash of lightning, and he steps back reluctantly, reminded that he has obligations to attend to.

 

“I have to get the light lit,” he explains. Brandon nods, a smile quirking across his lips.

 

“Go,” he says. “I’ll bring these things up and meet you inside.” Nick nods, dashing up the path and taking the stairs to the service room two at a time as the first clap of thunder rolls.

 

Getting the vents set to handle a storm is a delicate and time-consuming process. Even with years of experience, making certain that there’s enough air for the signal to burn without allowing in too much wind on strong gusts isn’t something that can be rushed. By the time he’s satisfied, a glance out the window tells him that Brandon has already gotten everything from the boat inside. It’s just as well, because the rain has picked up in earnest, falling hard enough now that he can hear it tapping on the windowpanes.

 

He makes his way down the stairs to the upper floor of the house, intending to meet Brandon in the kitchen. He’s startled to find the other man waiting for him at the landing though, leaning against the wall. There are no lamps lit in the house, which means the hallway is dark, but even so, Nick can see that the shoulders of his shirt are damp from the rain. A strand of hair hangs down over his forehead; Nick is torn between wanting to smooth it back and leaving it exactly like it is.

 

He stills, not sure what he’s supposed to say or do in this moment. All he can do is meet Brandon’s eyes, wondering if the questions he has are evident in his gaze. They must be, because Brandon straightens. He looks hesitant, taking the first step across the floor, but determined too. Nick doesn’t move, makes himself stay grounded to the spot because if he moves back like his instincts are screaming at him to do, Brandon might take it for reluctance on his part.

 

It wouldn’t be. It would just be fear. Nick’s not going to pretend that he’s not terrified right now. He’s practically shaking in his boots, but it’s not because he doesn’t want to see what comes of this- it’s because he does. He wants Brandon to take another step, and then another, until they’re standing close enough to breathe the same air. And when Brandon does just that, searching his face to see if this is truly what Nick desires, he nods clearly even though his heart is in his throat and he has to part his lips just to breathe.

 

A second later, he can’t even think of breathing, because Brandon’s fingers have come up to trace his jaw, to tilt his head just so, and Brandon’s lips are pressed against his, a soft subtle pressure that makes him lose awareness of everything else, including his own fingertips. It’s only when Brandon draws away that he can move again, reaching out to pull Brandon back to him, his fingertips catching on the worn fabric of Brandon’s shirt, reeling him back in, desperate to return the kiss.

 

Everything else fades away, the world shrinking to the shape of Brandon’s lips and they way they move against his own. Time slows and stretches, the space between one breath and the next fragile, like all of this could shatter any second. It doesn’t though. A moment passes, and then another, and Nick revels in how  _right_  all of this feels. Like he’s been looking for this his entire life and didn’t even know he was searching. His hands slide through Brandon’s hair and Brandon makes a tiny, pleased sound.

 

Nick pulls back after that, opens his eyes. He waits for Brandon to do the same. He knows what he wants, but he needs to see that Brandon wants it too. The expression on Brandon’s face takes his breath away, dazed and wanting and trusting all at once. It’s almost more than he can figure out what to do with. But he thinks he does know. He knows enough of his own wanting at least, and trades on that rather than his nervousness as he takes a step backward, letting his fingers trail to grasp Brandon’s, tugging the other man with him.

 

It’s only three steps to the doorway, another two to the bed, neatly made with the quilt his mother sewed for him several years ago, the blue of the fabric deepened by the bluish cast of light in the storm-shadowed room. He searches Brandon’s features, cast in the same light, and finds nothing but reverent desire there. That desire deepens, grows hungrier when Nick brings clumsy fingers up to undo the buttons on his shirt. Brandon doesn’t hesitate, just hauls his own shirt over his head in one fluid motion, dropping it to the floor after only a second’s pause. The muscles in his shoulders, his torso, are so well-defined that Nick can’t help but reach out to touch them, shocked by the heat of bare skin against his palm. Brandon picks up where he left off, peeling this shirt off Nick’s shoulders. His hand traces a path from the crook of Nick’s elbow to his shoulder, brushing against his collar bone and curving behind the nape of his neck to pull him close enough to kiss again.

 

Nick is altogether willing, one arm looping around Brandon’s neck, eager to draw their bodies together, to have them touch more fully. He uses the contact to draw the other man with him as he eases them back on the bed, the quilt cool against his back, a counterpoint to the searing heat of Brandon’s body. Were he a more superstitious kind of man, he might read something into the fact that lightning flashes, bringing with it a clap of thunder that rattles the wall, and a deluge of rain at the exact moment that Brandon rolls his hips, creating the most pleasurable friction. He moans with it, and Brandon bites his lip, his breath faltering. Frankly, Nick is amazed that they manage to last long enough to get their trousers unfastened and shoved down their hips, rutting together for only a few sharp thrusts before they each find their release.

 

In truth, what seems more significant than the storm that rages about them is the way that after they have used the cloth from the washbasin to clean themselves, Brandon catches Nick’s hand and tugs him back, kissing him affectionately and coaxing him back to the bed where they lay entwined, sharing the warmth of their bodies while the room grows cool around them and Nick thinks he might fall asleep to the sound of the wind and the rain and the waves outside, and the gentle press of Brandon’s lips against his forehead.

 

“Stay.” He murmurs drowsily when Brandon shifts, tightening his arm around the taller man’s waist.

 

“Always.” Brandon promises, his breath ruffling through Nick’s hair. “Every time.”

 

And Nick realizes he can live with that, can handle the weeks of loneliness in between their meetings, if it means there will be more moments like this.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come join me on Tumblr!
> 
> http://daughterofelros.tumblr.com/
> 
> Keep The Good Lamp Burning is now a Podfic, done by the incredible Neuroticsquirrl-- give it a listen! https://archiveofourown.org/works/3460964


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